Author's Note: Another piece from STAR for BK 'zine number 2. Many thanks to all who supported it and, as always, to fellow authors and perpetually alert betas--Owl and Cheri.
You and the Horse You Rode In On.
It hadn't been, as Hardcastle put it, even one of their worst fights, but Mark says he's tired of being treated like a kid and decides to move out on his own. After a hard-luck week searching for employment, he stumbles across an ad placed by David Waverly, bunko artist and the self-proclaimed CEO of Waverly Water Filters. Waverly's in a bind. He needs someone to take the place of the shill he just had murdered.
Mark is hired, on the spot, to be the head of West Coast distribution. Now driving a sharp car, and wearing a fancy suit, he arranges to meet Hardcastle at an expensive restaurant. Hardcastle sees what's going on, and informs the kid that he's hooked up with a con man.
Mark protests, but then goes back to Waverly, confronts him, and quits. Returning to the estate, he finds the place deserted—Hardcastle has been kidnapped by Waverly. Mark gets a well-timed call from the guy. He has to continue as a front man at a meeting for 'potential investors' that afternoon, or Hardcastle will be killed.
Mark does as he's told, but the cops close in on Waverly's goons and free the judge. When Mark sees Hardcastle walk into the auditorium, he ends the pretense and tells everyone just exactly what Waverly is. The guy bolts, with Mark in pursuit. Chase, crash, and arrest follow.
In the end, Mark receives a pile of bills for his brief stint as an executive. Hardcastle informs him it'll only take nine years to pay it off, deducting twenty a week from his 'allowance'. Mark demonstrates his new-found maturity by letting the judge have it with a sprayer from a garden hose.
Epilogue--by L.M. Lewis
The moment he'd done it, Mark had been ready to plead temporary insanity. That's really what it had to be, he thought, in that split second after he'd let loose and blasted Hardcase with the hose. He sure as hell couldn't explain the impulse any other way.
The amazing thing was that the judge hadn't busted his chops for the stunt. There hadn't even been any spectacular threats, just a glowering look as Hardcastle had stood there, dripping and muttering.
Mark swallowed once, hard, as he watched the man turn and stalk off toward the house. He stared down at the nozzle, then looked back up again. The judge was already out of sight. He briefly wished he had gotten his chops busted. That would definitely have been the end of it; Hardcastle didn't believe in double-jeopardy.
The alternative, he supposed, might be repercussions of a more official nature. The judge might be in the study right now—no, he'd probably make the call from the kitchen, dripping wet as he was—but either way, he wasn't one to waste time.
This is nonsense. You're crazy. Just go in there and apologize.
He swallowed again, surprised to find the idea hadn't stuck in his craw. Not that he would say he was accustomed to groveling. But damned if you weren't ready and willing to do it a few days ago.Truth was, if he hadn't fallen into the job with David Waverly, he would have had no job at all.
What are you going to do in a year and a half?
He gave that a hard thought, then suddenly realized he'd misplaced his main worry; Hardcastle was still in the house, possibly making plans for his more immediate future. He put the hose down and brushed his wet hands off nervously on his jeans, then started walking up to the house—the pace was faster than a stroll, but still slow enough to show reluctance.
He knocked on the front door, then stuck his head inside almost immediately. He hadn't been expecting an invitation. No sounds from the den. The kitchen, then. But before he could head that way, he heard Hardcastle at the top of the stairs, heading down, wearing a dry pair of sweats and carrying the sopping bundle of clothes at arm's length in front of himself.
"Here," he said, handing them over without any obvious rancor when he got to the bottom. Then he turned and headed into the study.
McCormick stared at what he'd been given for a moment, then realized it was dripping on his shoes. He hustled off to the laundry room, deciding en route that the judge probably wouldn't call for a black-and-white at least until he'd gotten the stuff fluffed and folded.
He sighed and stuffed it into the machine, set the controls, then leaned forward on the edge of it with both hands. Not a year and a half, nine years. That's what he said.
He didn't mean that. He was joking.
Mark shook his head. He thought the man probably meant it now. He stood up straight again and turned to face the music—something funereal no doubt. He walked back down the hallway to the front of the house, treading nearly silently. When he got to the door of the den he froze, standing on the top step.
Hardcastle was at his desk, sorting out his own part of the mail—soggy, limp sheets. Mark didn't move until he heard the man say, without looking up, "Well, you comin' in or not?"
Then he slunk down the steps and into the nearest chair. Without any further prelude he mumbled, "Sorry."
Hardcastle glanced up sharply, and seemed a little surprised. Mark figured it couldn't be what he'd said, so it must be that he looked as scared as he felt.
"Hah," the judge finally said, after a moment.
"Well," Mark said, mustering a little more determination, "I am."
"You're lucky I didn't clock you."
"Yeah," McCormick admitted, then he added, puzzled, "So why didn't you?"
It looked like the judge was thinking that one over a bit. He finally said, "Not sure, exactly. Maybe I thought I owed you one."
"Why?" Mark couldn't help it; there was a note of surprise in his voice.
"Ah," Hardcastle frowned, "maybe 'cause you walked back into Waverly's office, 'cause you knew I was in trouble."
"But I didn't save you; Lt. Delaney did. I was just along as the chump." Mark frowned at the sudden realization. "That's what I was all along. The chump."
"That's what you think?"
"Yeah," Mark heard himself mutter in resignation. This was worse than an apology. This was the unfortunate, unvarnished truth, and he couldn't help but notice that Hardcastle wasn't jumping right in there to disagree with him.
"Well, I wish I coulda been there," the judge finally said.
McCormick looked up sharply at him. "Where?"
"In Waverly's office, when you dropped that damn fancy watch in his fish tank." He was sitting back in his chair, looking pleased. "That was a nice touch."
"He thought I was an idiot. He thought I wouldn't ask any questions, thought I'd just look the other way. He—"
"Was wrong," Hardcastle interrupted.
Mark frowned dubiously. "Even about the idiot part?"
The judge gave that one a considered nod. "Not a chump, either. How were you supposed to know the score? Waverly made a living off of looking and acting the part."
McCormick was still frowning. He finally said, "I should've been able to tell."
"How?"
Mark winced a little. "You said it yourself, way back at the beginning, when you told me you needed someone like me to be your fast gun. You said 'it takes one to catch one.'"
The judge opened his mouth then closed it, without having said a word.
"Truth is," Mark went on, speaking almost to himself, "I'm not even very good at that."
Now Hardcastle was frowning, too, but he finally found his voice. "Hell, I'd say you're a little too good at the getting in and out of places." He shook his head. "It's just the criminal intent part that isn't your strong suit. You think that's a bad thing?" He shook his head again and went on before Mark could even venture an answer. "Now, listen, like I told'ja before—you got out as soon as you knew it was dirty, and you walked back in when you thought you had to, to help me. If that makes you a chump, then the world needs more of them as far as I'm concerned. Okay?"
McCormick thought about that for a moment and then slowly nodded yes.
"And," the judge leaned forward, ever so slightly, and fixed him with a steely gaze, "if you ever pull a stunt like that with the hose again, I'll bust your chops."